The Finish Line
by SugaKane01
Summary: Neal's been running for a long time and finally wonders if its time to stop.  This is a Peter/El/Neal OT3 fic so if you don't like slash, this fic isn't for you.  Warning: contains mentions of child abuse, non con, domestic violence and substance abuse.


A/N: This is my first fan fiction for the White Collar fandom...its just me getting my feet wet and trying to cure a horrible case of writers block. There is a tiny (or monumental depending on how you look at it) crossover with Chuck but you don't have to have seen a single episode of Chuck to enjoy the story)

Warnings: Mentions of Child Physical Abuse, (Implied) Child Sexual Abuse, Non-Con (implied, not graphic), Substance Abuse and Domestic Violence

**The Finish Line**

He was six and his name wasn't Neal yet.

He bolted upright in bed, his heart hammered wildly and his sleep glazed eyes darted all around the room. At first he hadn't been able to figure out what had ruthlessly plucked him from the land of slumber and then he'd heard the unmistakable smack of fist into flesh. He'd stilled, clutched Funshine Bear and held his breath, but a few seconds later his mother's yelp of pain forced him to abandon the relative safety of his bedroom and make his way cautiously down the hall.

He'd paused in front of her bedroom door. He had been able to hear Charlie, his mother's latest boyfriend, calling her all the words that he wasn't allowed to say. His little hand had splayed out against the heavy oak of the door and he'd given it a small push forward.

His eyes had widened and his mouth had opened in a silent O of horror as he'd stared at the picture of brutality being played out in front of him. He'd had no idea exactly what he'd been looking at but he'd known that it was _bad _and it was _wrong_ and it _needed to stop_. It wasn't until years later, when age and experience lifted the veil of innocence that he'd come to understand exactly how bad and wrong it had truly been.

He'd bravely stepped into the room when he'd heard his mother let out another agonized wail. He'd been overwhelmed with the desire to save her, to help her, to stop what was happening. He'd wanted to make Charlie and all the bad he brought with him go away: The ever present scent of alcohol, the pervasive presence of fear that bounced off the walls and permeated the air whenever he was around, the loud noises and bad words, the bruises and the crying. He'd just wanted it all gone.

He'd been about to scream, hit Charlie, stomp his foot, throw Funshine Bear at his head, do _something_ to help when Charlie had suddenly turned his head and eyed him coldly.

"You better git on outta here boy," He said in his slow southern drawl, "or else you gon' be next."

He'd turned and fled back down the hallway.

* * *

><p>He's not six anymore and he calls himself Neal now. He's pretty sure he's never stopped running. He's run from cons and consequences. He's dodged bullies and bullets. He's been all around the world, never stopping, never staying, always in perpetual motion, and almost always as someone else.<p>

As he looks to his left he sees Elizabeth, Peter's Elizabeth_, his_ Elizabeth. He thinks that if anyone ever asked him what love looks like he'd say that love looks like El. She's beautiful, the kind of soul deep beauty that motivated Botticelli, started the Trojan War and inspired the Taj Mahal. She's acceptance and accountability, steel and sensuality, dedication and desire, freedom and fearlessness, everything he's ever wanted and never knew he could have.

Then he looks to his right and sees Peter, Elizabeth's Peter, _his_ Peter. If El is what love looks like, then Peter is what love _feels_ like. Peter's handsome, but not pretty. Neal's the pretty one…Peter's attractiveness is less sculpted, less precise perfection and more rugged, more _real_. Peter is domination and determination, truth and trust, passion and protection, confidences and consequences, everything that he never knew he wanted but always knew he needed.

He looks at them, at the home they share and the life they've created and he thinks that maybe, maybe he doesn't have to keep running. A small tremor goes through his body.

A small frown appears on El's face and she places a hand on his thigh as Peter's arm instinctively snakes its way across his shoulders.

"You're shaking Neal, is something wrong?" is what Peter asks.

"_You can stop, you're safe here_." is what Neal hears.

He swallows, once, twice and clears his throat. "There was something wrong for a long time but not now, not anymore," he answers, "but it's not…I'm not…maybe it's time you two started calling me Bryce." He says in a quiet, slightly wavering voice.

El sucks in a sharp breath and a momentary look of confusion flashes across Peter's face before comprehension dawns. Peter presses a small kiss onto his temple and El takes his hand in hers.

"Bryce." Peter repeats voice thick with emotion.

"Bryce." El whispers softly, unshed tears making her cornflower blue eyes shine.

"Bryce." He confirms, nodding. He pulls Peter and Elizabeth tighter against him and finally stops running.


End file.
